Die Kuechenuhr (Borchert) - The Kitchen Clock (my translation)
They could already see him coming from far away because he stood out. He had a fairly old face, but from the way he walked, you could tell he was only twenty. Him and his old face sat down with them on the bench. And then he showed them what he was carrying in his hand.
This was our kitchen clock, he said, looking at them all one by one, all of them sitting on the bench in the sun. Yes, I found it. It was still there. He held out a round, white kitchen clock in front of him and dabbed the blue, painted numbers with his finger.
It isn't worth anything, he remarked apologetically, I know that. And it isn't particularly beautiful, either. It's just like a plate, you know, with the white glazing. But the blue numbers look quite pretty, I think. The hands are, of course, only made of tin. And now they are not working anymore, either. No. It's broken on the inside, that's for sure. But it still looks just the same as always. Even if it doesn't work anymore.
He traced his fingertip along a careful circle around the edge of the plate. And he said quietly: And it was still there.
Those who were sitting on the bench in the sun weren't looking at him. One was glancing at his shoes and the woman looked into her pram. Then someone said:
I suppose you've lost everything?
Yes, yes, he said cheerfully, imagine, absolutely everything! Just this one is left over. And he held up the clock again, as if the others didn't know it already.
But it doesn't work anymore, said the woman.
No, no, it doesn't. It's broken, I know that. But besides that, it's still just like it always is: white and blue. And he showed them his clock again. And the best thing is, he continued with excitement, I haven't even told you the best thing yet. The best thing is still coming: Imagine, it stopped at half past two. Just at half past two, of all times.
Then your house was surely hit at half past two, said the man, pursing his lower lip importantly. I have heard that a lot. When the bomb comes down, the clocks stop. It's because of the pressure.
He looked at his clock and shook his head. No, my dear man, no, you're mistaken, it has nothing to do with the bombs. You don't have to talk about the bombs all the time. No. At half past two, something else was happening, you just don't know it. That's the joke, it stopping at half past two of all times. And not at a quarter past four or at seven. Because at half two, I would always come home. At night, I mean. Nearly always at half two. That's the funny thing.
He looked at the others, but they had taken their eyes off him. He couldn't find them. So he nodded at his clock: So I was obviously hungry, right? And I would always go into the kitchen straight away. That was nearly always at half past two. And then, then my mother came, you see. I could open the door as quietly as I wanted, she always heard me. And when I'd be looking through the dark kitchen for something to eat, the light would suddenly switch on. Then she was standing there in her woolen jumper and with her red scarf. And barefoot. Even though our kitchen is tiled. And she squinted, because the light was so bright. Because she'd already been sleeping. It was night after all.
So late again, she would say. She never said any more. Just: So late again. And then she heated up dinner for me and watched me eat. She'd always be rubbing her feet against each other because the tiles were so cold. She would never wear shoes at night. And she sat with me until I was full. And then I heard her clearing away the plates, when I had already turned off the lights in my room. It would be like that every night. And nearly always at half past two. I took it for granted. After all, she always did it. And she never said more than: So late again. But she said that every time. And I thought it could never stop. I took it for granted. It had always been this way.
Silence fell over the bench for the time of a breath. Then he quietly said: And now? He looked at the others. But he couldn't find them. So he quietly said to the clock's white-blue, round face: Now, now I know it was paradise. Real paradise.
The bench was completely silent. Then the woman asked: And your family?
He smiled at her bashfully. Oh, you mean my parents? Yes, they're gone, too. Everything's gone. Everything, just imagine. Everything gone.
He smiled with embarassment from one person to the next. But they weren't looking at him. So he lifted up the clock again and laughed. He laughed: Just this one. This one's still here. And the best thing is that it stopped exactly at half past two. Half two, of all times.
Then he didn't say another word. But he had quite an old face. And the man sitting next to him looked at his shoes. But he didn't see his shoes. He kept thinking about the word paradise...